


head in the clouds, but my gravity's centered

by ElasticElla



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Accidental Drug Use, Episode: s01e08 Day Trip, Fantasizing, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 15:42:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6759937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElasticElla/pseuds/ElasticElla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Monty's never been high like this before- it's gritty and earthy, and makes him feel like a hippie from long, long ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	head in the clouds, but my gravity's centered

**Author's Note:**

> title from the neighbourhood's sweater weather

Monty's never been high like this before- it's gritty and earthy, and makes him feel like a hippie from long, long ago. He's used to chemical highs, easy to create and manipulate. Of knowing all the probable outcomes and feelings and reactions. 

This is fucking wild.

Monty can feel things about to head south- some people around camp are getting paranoid, which makes him want to be paranoid too and dammit, this is like the first time he's had fun on the ground since everyone started dying- he's going to keep his nice fucking high. With a small giggle at his own phrasing, because _that_ would be a good way to make sure he had an enjoyable time, Monty heads back to his tent. 

Things fade into a pretty haze, and then he's rolling around on his bed. Someone traded his blankets for furs, and Monty sheds his clothes, slipping between two furs. He can't remember ever being so comfortable or warm, and the blankets are heavy on his cock, redirecting his attention. Monty's hand doesn't feel like his own, too cold and calloused and- his eyes flick up when he hears the noise, and there's a topless Bellamy and Miller standing at the end of his bed. 

He has to hand it to his subconscious, they're nice choices. (Monty doesn't even entertain the notion that they could be real, he knows a wish fulfillment fantasy when he sees one.) They're both really pretty jackasses, and so what, maybe he has a type. He imagines them coming over, pinning him down to the furs and- _nope_ , Monty clamps down on the idea and his cock. He's not going into the unknown land of could be an epic orgasm or could be the scariest fucking high of his life. 

Miller's smirking in his direction, and Monty can't take it, needs to distance himself from the fantasy. Bellamy catches his eye before he can, all sweat soaked curls and desperation as he falls to his knees, hands behind his back. 

Monty gulps, and Bellamy wets his lips, quick and functional and seductive. Their fearless leader on his knees, and Monty's suddenly sitting up. He pinches himself as a reminder- they're not real and he can't go there, no matter how tempting it is. He _can't_ -

Miller's standing behind Bellamy, fingers pulling his hair back, baring his throat. It hits Monty suddenly that they aren't talking, haven't made a single noise, and that's probably something he should think about sober. But then Miller's left hand is scratching down Bellamy's neck, across his chest, and stopping at his nipple, making his hips buck. Bellamy's pants and socks and shoes are all gone, leaving him in a pair of gray regulation boxers that are a size too small and only emphasizing his erection. 

Monty's cock feels heavier than ever, trying to pull his attention away and force his eyes shut. He keeps them open wider than before, doesn't blink. Monty stills his hand when the sensations are too much, just grips his cock tightly and curses when Miller rubs his groin against the back of Bellamy's head. It shouldn't even be hot, but Bellamy's mouth is open in a silent groan and Miller's face is blissed out and Monty's coming and coming and coming into oblivion. 

.

When he wakes up from his nap, the furs are gone and there's a deep-seated need to find the moon.


End file.
